


call me by my name

by curiositykilled



Series: of swords and wings [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (both for spice and h/c), (but like real mild. a 1 on the pepper scale), (i think), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Old Friends, Post-Canon, basically the antithesis of that, no relation to the movie call me by your name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: In the midst of it all, they are each other's solace and safety.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Series: of swords and wings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602484
Comments: 8
Kudos: 126





	call me by my name

He’s grown used to this: the quiet scrape of the grate opening, the soft thud of Altaïr’s boots hitting the atrium floor, the breath of pause before he enters Malik’s office. It’s almost habit, enough that Malik has already finished the line he was writing and slid his quill back into the inkwell before he realizes Altaïr still hasn’t entered.

Frowning, he cants his head and listens a moment. Around him, the bureau is quiet with the rest of evening. Later, when the dark of night has fallen, assassins will rise from their beds and steal into the shadows to carry out their missions. Now, though, the bureau is hushed as they rest. Fear quickens his pulse. Stilling himself, Malik steps around his desk and walks to the threshold, braced. It would not be the first time Altaïr fell bloodied and injured to his bureau floor, but every time there is the risk it will be his last.

He stops in the doorway, his heart settling back into its rhythm and a smile pulling at his lips. Altaïr sits with his back against the fountain and head tilted against the tile rim. His hood’s slipped back to catch on his tawny curls, and the face revealed is unwontedly serene. Tired circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes, and stubble has grown along his cheeks and jaw. Against the low wall of the fountain, his shoulders sag and his arms hang loose against his knees. He doesn’t prick up at Malik’s entrance, and Malik carries on across the atrium to sit on the fountain’s edge beside Altaïr.

Altaïr turns his head, still leaning back against the tile.

“Safety and peace, Brother,” he greets.

“It appears you are in need of both, Mentor,” Malik remarks, nudging Altaïr with his knee.

Turning back to the front, Altaïr wrinkles his nose. His eyes are half-lidded, gaze distant under his lashes.

“Do not call me that.”

Malik cants his head.

“Mentor?” he asks. “Why not? It is your title now, no matter how you still cavort over the rooftops.”

Altaïr doesn’t reply immediately but twists his lips in displeasure and thought. Malik waits.

“It was his title,” he says at last. “Not mine.”

Malik falls quiet at that. There is so much of Altaïr and Al Mualim’s history to which he was not privy. They were all betrayed, wounded, by Rashid, but none had been so tangled in his poisonous love as Altaïr. Without words to comfort him, Malik rests his hand on Altaïr’s shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze.

“Come,” he says after a moment. “Wash up and I’ll ready dinner in the back room.”

Altaïr gives a grateful smile and little nod, and Malik straightens to head back to the kitchen. There’s stew still on the fire, cooked down to a thick curry, and Malik scoops it into two bowls before collecting bread and a bowl of dates. All of it is positioned on a wooden tray, a gift from a local merchant, and the tray balanced against his hip as he makes his careful way back to his rooms behind the office. Despite its small size, the bureau can seem a labyrinth, and it is only through practice that Malik makes his way back without bumping into anyone or think and upsetting the precarious balance of the tray.

Back in his rooms, Altaïr has not arrived, so Malik transfers the dinner from the tray to the broad rug covering half the rom and turns back to acquire tea. Altaïr enters as he’s filling their cups.

He wears only his trousers, tabard and equipment draped over his arm, and his skin gleams softly, still damp. His hair has only half-dried in darker curls, and the early shadow of a beard has been shaved off. With it, some of the burden that had weighed down his shoulders seems to have been sloughed off, too.

Setting his robes down on the trunk nearest the door, Altaïr hums in appreciation and pleasure as he settles beside Malik. The pillows hush out a tired breath as he leans against them, stretching out his long legs across the rug.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning over to press a kiss to Malik’s cheek.

Malik snorts and waves off the thanks. The little ways Altaïr shows affection always trip him up more than he expects. It shouldn’t surprise him to find Altaïr commits himself to this as fully as he has every other pursuit of his life, but it still does. He’d expected Altaïr to be more unsure, to be stumbling and aloof, in love. Instead, he has adjusted to this shift in their relationship as if he’d always awaited it, while Malik is the one left startled and stuttering.

“You know, you’ll have to accustom yourself to the title at some point,” Malik remarks partway through the meal.

In the midst of scooping stew up with his bread, Altaïr scowls.

“Or they could just call me by my name,” he retorts.

“Much as that may follow your dream of equality, it does hamper our subtlety if half the world knows our leader’s true name,” Malik points out.

“But they could only know of my name if told — and what cause should anyone outside the Brotherhood have to know it?” Altaïr retorts, pressing on without waiting for an answer. “The Order should be respected by those it protects and feared by those who seek its ruin, not because it is at the beck and call of one man but because of what the Order itself represents, what it is. It is time we change, adapt to the new world forming around us.”

It’s quite a speech for so reticent a man, and he speaks with a solemn furrow in his brow. Malik watches him, hackles rising with his suspicions.

“And are these your thoughts or the visions of Al Mualim’s relic?”

Altaïr stills, earnestness slipping into surprise. His lips twist, blanching the old scar cutting through them, and his gaze drops to the bowl cradled in his hand.

“Both,” he admits, reluctant. “They are my thoughts, borne of my experiences and lessons learned, but I will not claim the Apple has not inspired me.”

Frustration rises like a red tide in Malik’s chest, and he sets down his bowl to keep from flinging it or its contents. Before he can voice his objections, Altaïr turns to him, shoulders set.

“I know it is dangerous, Malik,” he says. “I know better than to fully trust it or think myself above its influence, but if it can help the Order, if we can use it — how can we abandon such opportunity?”

“If you water a tree from a poisoned well, the tree may well bear fruit, but that fruit will be poison,” Malik snaps.

He’s not sure when he started speaking in proverbs and riddles. When he was young, chasing Altaïr through the ranks of the Brotherhood, he’d often been annoyed with dais’ cryptic messages. Now, he finds himself speaking their same tongue as if he learned it without ever meaning to.

Altaïr drops his gaze and sighs. One hand lifts, combs back through his damp curls, and tightens briefly before falling to his lap. To Malik’s surprise and confusion, the start of a smile, rueful, quirks up the corner of his lips.

“This is why I want you in Masyaf.”

It’s said quietly, more to his hands than to Malik, and for a moment, Malik can only gape. Looking up, Altaïr catches his gaze and settles, shoulders squaring as if for a fight.

“For selfish reasons, I know — because I miss your company and wisdom — but also because the Order needs your guidance. They need a strong second they can turn to and rely on. You have the respect of our Brothers and—”

“How long have you been waiting to ask me?” Malik interrupts.

Altaïr pauses, looking unsure.

“Since you returned to Jerusalem,” he answers.

Breathing out an incredulous laugh, Malik scrubs his hand over his face. _Ridiculous man._

“That was nearly a year ago,” he points out. “Have all these missions that could have been handled by anyone else been reconnaissance?”

“I did not want to be rash. You seem happy here, in your way,” Altaïr explains, hand rolling palm-up over his thigh, “and with the unrest, it was safer for you to be here, with your men and networks, untainted by my proximity, should Masyaf have need of a new leader.”

That takes the wind out of the sails of Malik’s protest or ribbing. Trust Altaïr to plan for his own death rather than seeking help.

“If you had gotten yourself killed and left me to carry out this half-brained plan, I’d drag you back and kill you myself,” he grumbles.

Altaïr chances a small smile up at him.

“Perhaps I should have asked your input earlier,” he allows.

“You’ll have to send my replacement before I return to Masyaf,” Malik says, “so that I may introduce them to informants and key resources and facilitate a smooth transition.”

“You would give them an easier start than yours?” Altaïr asks.

A smile curls his lips, and he watches Malik with a fondness that cannot be mistaken for condescension or anything but the gentle affection it is.

“Isn’t that the point? To smooth the path for those that follow, leave them better off than we were?” Malik shoots back anyway.

The smile widens, just-so, before Altaïr ducks his head and thins his lips. When he lifts his gaze to Malik’s once more, his brow is pinched.

“Malik, when I ask you to return to Masyaf it is as the grandmaster seeking a worthy second in command,” he says, “but it is also as — as—”

“Altaïr. I know,” Malik says, laying his hand over Altaïr’s. “I know.”

There are no marriages among Assassins. Couples are permitted, even lifelong partners, but no vows are exchanged. Nothing can supersede the Creed, can challenge Brothers’ commitment to the Order.

This isn’t one either but a proposal in its own right. There are no vows they could give that have already been given, no sacrifices they could make that haven’t already been made. Returning to Masyaf won’t change any of that. This is no grand ceremony or shift; it is purely for themselves, for the comfort and solace of each other’s company. They can get by on their own, far from each other, but they no longer have to. They can have this, this haven of two, now.

“Is this part of adapting to the new world?” he asks, a little teasing.

“Attachment is not weakness,” Altaïr replies. A little smile plays at his lips, though his words are sincere. “I would far prefer to fight a man with nothing to lose than one with everything to fight for.”

Malik doesn’t call him sentimental but only because he knows how quickly the same could be thrown back at him. He gives Altaïr’s hand a little squeeze.

“I have one condition,” he says.

Altaïr tilts his head, quizzical.

“You have to move out of that broom closet you’ve used as a bedroom,” Malik says. “The grandmaster’s chambers are yours by right, and I hear that bed could fit four grown men.”

“Are you planning to invite the whole Brotherhood, Malik?” Altaïr teases, laughing aloud.

His grin is broad and honest, narrowing his amber eyes to crescents under his lashes, and his laughter the easiest Malik has heard it in months. Grinning, Malik leans in to kiss it from his lips. Altaïr answers eagerly, crowding Malik back and nipping at his bottom lip. Malik laughs, a breath of noise, before meeting him again.

Dinner is forsaken, brushed absently out of the way to avoid broken pottery. Their bodies are as familiar to each other as their own, and there is comfort in the familiar way Altaïr shivers at Malik’s mouth against his skin, the way his hands fit so carefully to the curves of Malik’s hips. There’s no hurry here, no rush or urgency. They move together like two halves too long separated and settle together with the gentleness of time-worn love.

After, Altaïr lies between Malik’s legs with his chest resting over Malik’s belly, eyes half-lidded. Humming absently, Malik cards his fingers through Altaïr’s hair.

“I don’t have a ring or any gift,” Altaïr remarks.

Amused, Malik lifts Altaïr’s hand to press a kiss to his palm.

“There is nothing I would ask beyond your word,” he says, releasing his hand.

“And my rooms,” Altaïr adds, dry.

Malik grins, settling back more fully into the pillows.

“That, too,” he affirms.

The pillows are strewn around them, a haphazard map of their movements, and their plates abandoned all the way across the rugs. He makes no move to collect them, fully sated with Altaïr’s heat seeping through him.

Letting his hand fall to curl loosely over the back of Altaïr’s neck, they fall into a sleepy quiet.

“Do you think it matters? The title?” Altaïr asks after a moment.

He’s not wholly surprised by the question, though he wasn’t expecting it. Altaïr has a tendency to mull over these things for days before coming to ask his advice when his mind is already half made up. Tilting his head, Malik considers his words before replying.

“I think it would provide the Brothers with some assurance,” he says, “as well as more firmly cement your leadership.”

Altaïr’s lips twist. His gaze is cast to the side, distant, and his arms crossed unconsciously under his chin. Watching him, Malik feels a little clench of pity in his heart. Drawing his hand to Altaïr’s chin, he tilts it up to meet his gaze. Altaïr’s eyes flick to him immediately, watchful.

“A title will not change who you are,” he says, “nor erase the man you have become.”

A wry arch lifts Altaïr’s brow, and he breathes out a laugh as if at his own transparency. Leaning his cheek against his arm, he presses his lips together in thought.

“I’ve never wanted to be grandmaster,” he says. “As a child, I wanted to be as good as — better than — my father and then good enough to be — to please Al Mualim. I never thought—”

He breaks off, closing his teeth around the words he does not say. Malik gives his forearm a gentle squeeze. Even as children, before Ahmad Sofian, before Altaïr turned cold and aloof, he had chased life with an urgency unlike anyone else, like he had only a short while to fit everything in. How strange it must feel to surpass all his own dreams and still live on.

“You are not in this alone,” Malik says. “Whether in Masyaf or Jerusalem, I am always by your side — and it isn’t just me. We will help you, and though there may be some who expect you to be perfect, none will judge you so harshly as you judge yourself.”

“It seems you were just chiding me for arrogance,” Altaïr remarks, wry.

Malik hums, tilting his head noncommittally.

“They walk hand in hand,” he replies.

Altaïr’s perfectionism has driven him equally to haughtiness and self-flagellation: he must be better than everyone else and so when he is not, he has failed. Even now, so changed from the man he once was, that much is still true.

“And you said you would never remember a word from Dai Samir’s lessons,” Altaïr says.

“It must have slipped into my dreams, I slept through so many of his lessons,” Malik replies.

Straightening, Altaïr lifts his head from his arms to fix Malik with an ironic look.

“Liar,” he says. “You answered every one of his questions, half before he’d finished the asking.”

Malik laughs, startled at Altaïr’s bluntness and memory. Those lessons seem so long ago now, the distant wisps of childhood.

“Do you remember that time you drew him?” he asks. “Droning on and on?”

Groaning, Altaïr lifts a hand to scrub down his face, but he’s grinning.

“Don’t remind me,” he moans. “I was so sure he was going to send me to Al Mualim and I’d be kicked out of the entire Order.”

Looping his arm around Altaïr’s shoulders, Malik can’t keep his own from shaking with laughter at the thought of adolescent Altaïr quivering in his boots because of a silly drawing of their teacher. He can still picture his face gone white with horror, remember the sudden silence of the classroom as their lumbering geography instructor loomed over Altaïr and his parchment. 

Despite his pretense at pouting, Altaïr’s smiling softly up at him, the skin by his eyes crinkled in amusement. Malik reaches up to ruffle his hair, and Altaïr’s smile breaks into a grin as he laughs and ducks out of the way. Satisfied, Malik settles back into place. They need to extinguish the lanterns sitting around the room and do something with the dinner gone cold in its bowls, but for right now, he’s content to stay where they are.

“Do you remember that woman I mentioned — Maria?” Altaïr asks when he’s run a hand back through his hair to brush it back in place.

“The former Templar who kicked you in the face?” Malik replies. “How could I forget.”

Altaïr’s brow pinches as if that wasn’t quite how he wished Malik to remember that part, but he rolls his eyes and carries on.

“I think she would make a fine initiate,” he says instead, shifting up so he can drop his head to Malik’s shoulder.

Humming in thought, Malik slides his hand up Altaïr’s arm to hook loosely around his elbow. There have never been women in the Brotherhood either, but at this point, he’s run out of surprise. Typical of Altaïr to come up with these ideas while he runs about Jerusalem like a street child.

“Well, anyone who can take our Grandmaster by surprise seems worthy of consideration,” he allows.

Altaïr makes a little noise of agreement and curls tighter around Malik’s side, one leg hooking around Malik’s. Already, his weight has gone mostly slack against Malik, and when Malik looks down, Altaïr’s eyes are closed. Breathing out a laugh, Malik presses a kiss to the top of his head and settles back. In the morning, he decides. They’ll have time tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I've come to the conclusion that all my non-AU AC fics are part of the same 'verse as of swords and wings in which canon is thrown in the trash pit and my babes just get tenderness instead
> 
> next installment: Maria Thorpe, the one and only
> 
> as always, I'm on tumblr @ [curiosity-killed](https://curiosity-killed.tumblr.com/) if you want to cry about this 13-year-old game and its stabby children with me


End file.
